


The Witcher Saves The World, But Who Saves The Witcher?

by NerdyBirdy6602



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Witcher Potions (The Witcher), Witcher Senses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:28:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26201164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NerdyBirdy6602/pseuds/NerdyBirdy6602
Summary: Geralt was only meant to go on a quick bounty. The alderman said the town was having some issues with a Nekker nest on the outskirts, but sometimes, men lie. When the Witcher walks into a swarm of monsters unprepared, who is to come to his rescue?Jaskier, that's who.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 17
Kudos: 228





	The Witcher Saves The World, But Who Saves The Witcher?

Nekkers. It just had to be nekkers, didn’t it?

The alderman had downplayed the severity of the problem when Geralt agreed to the contract, probably to drag down the price. It was just one nest, the man had said. It was very small, but right on the edge of town. It was a nuisance, mostly. It would be akin to exterminating rats. Geralt should have known he was lying and been prepared. Now, however, he had maximum toxicity flowing through his veins, a rather concerning gash across his abdomen, and a nekker at every angle. He was out of bombs, but he did have a Golden Oriole left. It would hurt him later, but it could be his only way to win this fight.

The Witcher casts a well-placed Quen and takes the opportunity to down the potion. A loud, painful grunt leaves his throat as the poisonous potion burns a trail down his esophagus. He feels what can only be described as power flowing through his veins. Geralt tries to focus before the monsters strike him down, or the toxicity catches up with his body. He made quick work of the nekkers, deflecting their attempts to claw at him with a swing of his silver sword. The White Wolf only had to survive this swarm… 

The nekkers didn’t go down without a fight, but down they went nonetheless. Geralt stood surrounded by corpses, chest heaving and mind spinning. Even high on potions, he knew he had to return to Roach and camp. There, Jaskier could tend to his wounds, and he could take some White Honey to counteract the poison he’d consumed. However, he took one step towards his faithful horse and collapsed in a heap. He tried with all his remaining strength to stand, but instead found himself laying face first in a pool of his own blood.

Roach, the wonderfully smart mare she was, galloped at full speed back to camp to fetch the bard. Jaskier was a safe man, and the horse only instinctively knew this after nearly ten years of travelling together. She took the hour ride at full gallop with no hesitation, braying loudly to shake the bard from his daydreams. Jaskier looked up with a gentle smile, expecting to meet Geralt’s golden eyes in the darkness.

“Geralt, you better have a story to tell or else I’ll have nothing to write! How did it…” The bard trailed off, finally realizing there was no Witcher in sight. He asked worriedly, “Roach? Where’s Geralt?”

Jaskier immediately drops his lute and mounts the horse, allowing her to lead him back to her master. His stomach twisted in fear. This wasn’t the first time Jaskier needed to drag Geralt away from his work, but it didn’t make it easier. Jaskier feared each time that he would find the poor Witcher dead or dying beyond repair. His heart ached at the thought, and it made him edge Roach faster. When he finally arrived in the clearing Geralt was unconscious, eyes flickering back and force behind his eyelids. Jaskier jumped off his steed before Roach could even come to a complete stop. He could hear the labored breaths and saw the black, pulsing veins surrounding his eyes. The bard could only guess the Witcher had pushed his limits too far, burning the candle from both ends. Sighing, he does the only thing he could think of. 

He lifts Geralt bridal-style.

Now, Jaskier was no weakling, his muscular form was merely less defined than Geralt’s. Everyone looked like a runt next to the Witcher, but Jaskier didn’t mind. It only ever made opponents underestimate him in a fight. In moments like this one, the bard was even more grateful for his strength. Carrying the 200-something White Wolf was no easy task, but he managed pretty well for himself. Jaskier would have heaved him onto Roach, but he feared it would jostle the wounds. Geralt couldn’t afford to take any more of a beating, and so he made the choice to sacrifice speed for the sake of an easy journey.

When they arrived at camp, Geralt had begun to open his eyes. In his nearly feral state, he lashes out at Jaskier, letting loose a guttural snarl. His pitch-black eyes stared menacingly at Jaskier, and yet he didn’t flinch. The bard had met Geralt on potions on select occasions, but the Witcher never harmed him. He was all bark and no bite because, somewhere deep within, he knew that Jaskier was the safest person he could be with in times like these. Still, having enough strength to fight back was a good sign. It meant that recovery was ahead of Geralt, even if it wouldn’t be easy.

Setting the Witcher down, Jaskier immediately reached for the Witcher’s satchel of potions, rummaging through them. The bard was mumbling something about needing to organize this bag one day, in the case of yet another life-threatening emergency. He ended up taking out every potion he had and laying them on the ground. None of them had the familiar milky-white substance inside the vial. Frustrated, he looked at Geralt with a scowl.

“You don’t have any White Honey in here? Fuck, you’re slowly killing yourself and I can’t make any of your Witcher-y brews. Help me, please. Help me save you.”

The Witcher took a moment longer than normal to process the words, but gave a mild grunt in frustration at his own foolishness. He should have come fully stocked and prepared for the unexpected. It takes great effort for him to construct this simple sentence: “Focus on physical wounds; the potions will fade with time.”

Jaskier winced at that, but started to do as he was asked. Playing the waiting game was excruciating for the Witcher. He’d never seen the man go through it, but he did have to comfort him in the aftermath. Jaskier thought about how much it pained him to see his partner looking so close to the brink of death as he began to sterilize and suture the wounds. The poor Witcher howled in agony as the potions in his blood heightened every sense, and increased his pain tenfold. He began to writhe and squirm underneath Jaskier’s ministrations, unable to help himself. Geralt had quite the threshold for pain, but this was too much even for him.

“Geralt, please. I couldn’t restrain you if I tried,” Jaskier pleads, pausing his stitching. “I can’t heal you properly if you keep moving. Please, you have to stay still even though it hurts.”

The White Wolf growls, teeth bared at the thought of being restrained. However, Jaskier noticed he moved far less now. He still screamed into the night as the agony hit him in waves, but his body lay motionless. The bard was on the last steps of bandaging the wounds when the shouts became whimpers. Jaskier looked to his face, and was shocked to find tears rolling down his muddied countenance. When was the last time he saw the Witcher cry? Did he ever? Some part of him, underneath his anguish, was honored that Geralt knew he could be this vulnerable with Jaskier.

“It’s too much,” Geralt whispers, his raspy voice struggling to be heard. “Make it stop, Jask.”

Jaskier gasped and quickly ceased touching the injured man as he understood. The potions enhanced the Witcher senses even further, so even after the painful parts of healing had ended, the most gentle brush of skin or cloth could feel painful. Jaskier was at a loss, taking a long moment to think before suddenly laying down beside the Witcher. He kept himself silent and still, a rather unnatural quality for the bard. Geralt had once told him that he could hear nearly everything at once if he didn’t focus properly. Geralt was in no state to do so himself, so he thought he would eliminate any excess. A loud, desperate whine spills from the Witcher’s lips.

“I’m right here,” Jaskier soothes in the softest whisper. “Close your eyes. You’re oversensitive and hurting because of it.”

Geralt does as asked without complaint, focusing immediately on Jaskier’s heart beating steadily and the gentle scent of his perfume. Lavender. Was it always this pleasant? He swears he could remember complaining about the garish smell, but now it seemed like the most comforting thing in the world. Jaskier would guard him now in his most defenseless hour. He didn’t deserve it, not by a longshot, but he accepted the help gratefully.

They remained that way for hours, laying side by side and listening to the sounds of the forest’s evening activities. The chirping crickets were still too sharp and the rustling of foliage too loud, but he couldn’t hear a threat. As the potions started to wear off, he could feel nausea rising in his chest. Geralt realized, painfully, that he couldn’t move one way or another. He was quite stuck on his back, the pain of his half-wrapped wounds holding him pinned. As if he could sense the Witcher’s distress, Jaskier turns to his side. Geralt was still pale and gazing at him with hollow, black eyes.

“I can’t tell what you need,” Jaskier whispers, to gauge what the pained expression meant. “You have to tell me.”

“Vomit,” he groans, the single word sending the bard to scramble to Geralt’s hip and tip him on his side.

In an instant, it felt like Geralt was gagging and heaving on everything he’d ever eaten in his lifetime. It was messy and painful, leaving the man’s throat burning. He grips the grass in clumps, trying to take his anguish and pain out on something. When he finally finishes hacking, he notices that the world isn’t quite so loud and his skin feels like it could handle a gentle touch. He also notices that the night sky is much darker. Geralt rolls to his back to stare at Jaskier, who gives him a gentle smile. The Witcher’s pupils were normal-sized and rimmed with gold. The bard couldn’t be more pleased.

“Welcome back to the land of the living, dear heart,” he said softly, voice still kept at a consistent whisper. “Do you feel well enough for me to finish bandaging your wounds?”

The Witcher hesitates, and then gives a quiet grunt of affirmation. Jaskier gets to work, deft fingers firmly wrapping the bandages. He tries to make as little contact as possible. Geralt might be well enough to be mended, but the same probably couldn’t be said for even the most gentle touch. He had to be handled with the utmost care, despite how invulnerable he seemed most of the time. Jaskier didn’t make a sound, not even the subtle humming he usually did while mending his partner. Geralt knew that silence was what his body needed, but his mind found it unsettling. The bard wasn’t himself if he wasn’t singing or chattering.

Before he knew it, the wounds were properly cleaned and wrapped, almost the way a professional healer would have it done. Geralt gives a weak smile, as if to show that he wasn’t completely broken. Jaskier stifled a laugh and laid down beside him once more. His hand reached to hold the Witcher’s but he held back. One gaze into Geralt’s sunshine-filled irises told him the touch was alright. Gingerly, Jaskier intertwined their fingers, letting his thumb caress the back of the man’s calloused hands.

“Jask,” Geralt rasps, carefully turning his head to look at his companion. “Come closer. Not roughly, and don’t touch the wounds obviously but… a welcome presence helps to calm the senses.”

Jaskier grins, scooting closer and tucking himself into Geralt’s side. Their hands were no longer interlocked, but the Witcher’s arm wrapped around his waist instead. Geralt leaned in and took a deep breath, filling his nose with lavender perfume. Nothing had ever quelled the constant urge to be on guard the way Jaskier had in that moment. It felt like serenity, something so foreign to him that he wasn’t sure at first if he’d named it properly.

“The alderman said this would have been easy,” Jaskier mumbled, leaving the unasked question of "What happened?" in the air between them. 

“He fucking lied,” Geralt grit out. “It wasn’t one nest, but three. None of them were small. I was swarmed and… forced to take a potion with my toxicity already maxed.”

Jaskier looked appalled as he exclaimed, “He was trying to kill you!”

Geralt hadn’t considered that before. He paused to digest the idea, and then softened. “No, I don’t think so. He wanted to save funds.”

“I’ll kill him.”

Jaskier gently wiggled out of his partner’s grip and stood. Geralt tried to right himself, but only groaned in agony. The man wouldn’t be moving anywhere for a few days, especially not on horseback all the way to the village. Deafening to his own ears, he called out to Jaskier, “Leave it be! I’ll deal with him in the morning. I can’t move, Jaskier. Don’t… don’t leave. I couldn’t lift a sword if I tried.”

That gave Jaskier pause. Just as he was about to mount Roach and show the alderman what for, he looked back at poor Geralt lying on his back. They both knew he was right, of course. He couldn’t just leave the wounded Witcher alone in a forest. So, quietly, he sat back down in the grass. Jaskier admits in a gentle tone, “You’re right. I’m sorry. I just… I can’t believe people still try to cheat you. What have you done to deserve such treatment?”

“Blaviken.”

That struck Jaskier to his core, leaving him to feel wounded. He’d done everything he could to clear the Witcher’s name, but he could never get rid of that evil moniker. No one had heard the whole story and, although he’d never personally met Stregobor, he hated him for spreading this awful lie. Geralt had become a scary story to tell around a campfire and there was no ballad he could compose to remedy that.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers into the night. “But we both know you aren’t the monster they tell you that you are.”

Geralt looks away, closing his eyes as he asks, “You can say honestly that you weren’t afraid of me hours ago?”

Jaskier raises a brow at that, taking a moment to think on that. Afraid of Geralt of Rivia? Geralt, who’d saved him from peril more times than he could count? Geralt, who held him close in the evenings? Never. He was always scared for the Witcher instead. He often sat back at the camp, wondering if earlier that same day would be the last time he saw his dear Witcher.

“So your eyes grow black after potions and you're a tad more volatile than usual,” Jaskier teases, gently petting Gerralt’s matted locks. “You don’t frighten me. I know you’d never hurt me because, well… I’m your bard. You like me, at least a little bit.”

Geralt snorts, looking over at Jaskier and reaching out his hand. He grasps the man’s doublet and pulls him down gently so they’re nose to nose, close enough that Jaskier could feel the warm breath against his own skin. Geralt remains this way for a long time, merely holding him there so he can study Jaskier’s easy smile.and bright cornflower blue gaze. In a moment of vulnerability (or bravery; sometimes the Witcher wasn’t sure), he confesses, “I don’t just like you. I… I appreciate your presence. Your caring nature is mind-boggling yet welcome all the same. You are the best thing I’ve ever encountered along the Path.”

Jaskier positively beams. It was as if Geralt had just hung the sun in the sky for the bard alone. Without another moment’s hesitation, Jaskier bridges the gap between them and steals a breath-taking kiss. Geralt is taken aback, but melts into the unexpected affection nonetheless. He tugs the bard closer until they’re laying one atop the other. Thankfully his chest went mostly unscathed, so the position was mostly comfortable.

“I love you too, dear heart.”

When Geralt awakes the next morning, he discovers Jaskier surrounded by medical supplies. When he squints against the morning sun, he can see the bard gingerly wrapping his knuckles. He sits up too quickly, groaning as his head starts spinning. This catches Jaskier’s attention, and his whole expression brightens. He kneels before Geralt, gently easing him back to the forest floor. Softly, he purrs, “Well good morning, Geralt. Have a good time sleeping in, I see?”

“What did you do?”

The question was a simple one, but it made Jaskier hesitate. He knew Geralt wouldn’t like the answer. It was almost the exact thing that the Witcher had begged him not to do. It was a necessary evil in Jaskier’s eyes, something he knew Geralt didn’t believe in. With a sigh, he answers, “I gave the alderman a piece of my mind. I left him with a broken nose and his pockets nearly empty. He had a change of heart! Felt so sorry for trying to kill you that he nearly tripled your pay! You can thank me later.”

Geralt doesn’t explode like he expects him to. Maybe the Witcher is so exhausted from the evening before that he doesn’t have the heart to argue. It’s hard to tell, but all the Witcher gives him in return is a dirty look and a grunt. Jaskier chuckles and takes to checking Geralt’s bandages, changing them as needed. He adds in a softer tone, “I’m sorry I left you alone. I know that upsets you, even if you won’t say so. That alderman had to answer for his actions. I know you wouldn’t have done a damn thing so I intervened.”

Geralt frowns, holding out his sizable, rough hands to hold Jaskier’s smaller ones. The bard indulges, but he gives the Witcher a confused glance. Geralt just continued to stare at the purple bruises blooming against tender knuckles. He brushes his lips against them in reverence of the hands that made such wonderful music for the public. Quietly, guiltily, he mumbles, “You shouldn’t hurt your hands.”

Jaskier scoffs, smirking at him as he teases, “I know, it’s because they’re my money-makers, right? I—”

“No,” Geralt blurts out, his eyes showing his genuine sorrow. Clearing his throat, he continues gravely, “I meant they make you happy. Writing, playing… You need your hands for those things, Jask. Don’t hurt them defending me. It’s not worth it.”

Jaskier’s eyes widened in surprise, smiling at the thought of Geralt fretting over his well being, both physically and emotionally. It wasn’t that he liked the idea of Geralt worried, but it was nice to know someone genuinely cared. He had a very short list of people who genuinely cared for him and didn’t just use him. Geralt’s name was nestled right at the top, highlighted and underlined. Still, the very notion brought a tear to his eye.

“You are worth every moment,” Jaskier reminds him, brushing a gentle hand against his forehead. “If there is anything I value more than my lute and my music, it’s you, dear heart.”

Geralt sighs, closing his golden eyes for a moment. He definitely wasn’t speechless, he was merely processing. It wasn’t as if anyone had ever shown him this level of kindness ever. Vesemir had guided him with a steady hand so he could survive on the Path, but it wasn’t out of the kindness of his heart. Jaskier was the only person to ever make him top priority for the sake of love. It made his supposedly non-existent heart swell with emotions. So no, he wasn’t speechless. He simply felt overwhelmed by his feelings.

“You look scared,” Jaskier says teasingly. “Geralt, I’m truly fine. If anything, I’ll have new ballads to sing about a certain idiot in a certain nondescript town.”

Geralt chuckles and peeks an eye open at his travelling partner. He studied the man’s face and found nothing but truth in his cornflower blue gaze. Jaskier was, always, honest and open with him so he should have expected such even now. He cups the bard’s face in his hands and sighs, resigning to let the issue about Jaskier defending his honor drop. Geralt knew that, if the need arose, he could defend himself. Although… Maybe, just maybe, the Witcher could get used to someone protecting him, rather than him protecting everyone else, even if that someone else was his very own stubborn bard.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! I hope you enjoyed today's work and feel free to leave kudos, comments, and constructive criticism. As always, have a lovely day!


End file.
